The Darkness Knows (2 page)

But as Vivian watched Marjorie shuffle away, she comforted herself with the thought that the older actress was on her way out. Her star was on the wane, and Vivian's was on the rise. She had nowhere to go but up. Vivian smiled to herself and pushed the ladies' room door open.

She studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror and rubbed a smudge of Ravishing Ruby lipstick off her front tooth. She patted the wave of hair over her forehead lightly and straightened the comb holding her hair back on one side. The high neckline of her green wool dress complemented her rosy complexion and strawberry-blond hair, she thought, at least in that dim light. Satisfied, Vivian gathered her things and headed out. But as she opened the bathroom door, an angry female voice pushed its way in.

“…won't keep my voice down…”

Even though the line was delivered in a low hiss, Vivian recognized the voice immediately: it could only belong to an extremely unhappy Marjorie Fox. Instinctively, Vivian let the door fall closed. Marjorie's voice and a much lower one belonging to a man rumbled through the thick wood, both from right outside the restroom.

“Now, Marjorie, I'm sure it's a misunderstanding…” The rest of the sentence was muffled.

“…possibly be a misunderstanding? Look at this. You told me you took care of everything.”

The man sighed. “I
always
take care of it, don't I?” he said. “There won't be any more trouble.”

Vivian leaned closer and held her breath but heard nothing more. Without warning, the door flew inward, and Vivian jumped out of the way. She lost her grip on her handbag and watched with horror as everything within—including wads of lipstick-smeared tissue—spilled on the floor at Marjorie's feet.

“Sorry,” Vivian said for the second time in as many minutes.

Marjorie sniffed dismissively, stepped over the mess, and headed straight into the last stall, slamming the door shut behind her. Vivian crouched and scooped the items into her open bag, muttering under her breath about her own carelessness. She paused to tame her swirling thoughts before pulling the door open to find Graham sauntering toward her down the hallway, hands in pockets.

“There you are,” he said.

“Here I am,” she agreed. She glanced down the hallway in both directions. It was empty. In the time it had taken her to collect her things, the other participant in Marjorie's hushed conversation had disappeared.

“Shall we?” Graham asked, holding out his arm.

Vivian was halfway through her cup of coffee before she realized that Graham did just want to talk about the timing in the second half of the show. She'd let herself imagine they might discuss more personal matters, but Graham showed no sign of getting any more personal than his fictional alter ego's motivation.

In fact, he'd already segued into a list of possible plotlines for Harvey Diamond. It seemed he'd thought long and hard about the direction his character should take, not merely in the next episode, but in the next several dozen. He called it the character's “arc,” which, Vivian was sure, was something he'd just overheard one of the writers say.

She'd also been hoping to go somewhere more exotic than the Tip Top Café, the tiny coffee shop on the lower level of the Morrison Hotel across the street from the station. The station staff frequented this place due entirely to its proximity rather than the quality of its food or service—both of which left much to be desired. A dozen or so people were clustered in twos and threes throughout the smoky room, most of them couples either coming from or about to go to one of the half a dozen movie palaces in the neighborhood. The McVickers Theater, just one block east, was showing the last night of
Carefree
, an Astaire and Rogers picture, and many people were likely taking their last chance to see the film before it closed.

The reed-thin waitress who had halfheartedly taken their order returned with the coffeepot. Vivian placed her hand over her cup as Graham said in a booming voice, “Sure, doll. Top it up.”

He flashed the waitress a smile, which she self-consciously returned. Then he turned his attention back to Vivian.

“I don't want Harvey to remain so one-dimensional, you know?” Graham took a deep drag from his cigarette, and Vivian noted that even though he'd taken it from a Sultan's Gold box, complete with the knowing Turk on the cover, the cigarette did not have the distinctive Sultan's Gold band around it. She opened her mouth to comment but instead caught Graham's smoky exhalation.

She coughed as politely as she could into her hand and turned her head to the side to escape the unswerving plume of smoke. As she did, she noticed the two women in the booth opposite. They were pretty young things, glancing at Graham and whispering to each other behind white-gloved hands. Graham seemed to take no notice of his admirers, but Vivian didn't doubt for one second that he knew he'd attracted their attention. She just hoped they wouldn't come over and ask for his autograph.

“I want Harvey to be a full-fledged human being with a dark side as a counterpoint to his inherent goodness,” Graham continued.

“I think that's admirable,” Vivian said, raising her voice slightly for benefit of the eavesdroppers. “Few radio actors truly care about character development.”

Graham looked at her thoughtfully, then flicked the end of his cigarette in the general direction of the ashtray. “Do you think Mr. Hart has any influence on the writers?”

“Well, of course he does,” Vivian said. “He's the head of the station.”

“Yes, I know that,” Graham said impatiently. “But can he pressure the writers to write about certain things?”

Vivian smiled at Graham's naïveté. Mr. Hart was The Boss. If he wanted a serial drama about pigeon racing in Pocatello, Idaho, he'd get it. She'd seen plenty of evidence of his influence when she'd been his secretary: sponsors being worked into lines of dialogue, his wife's name used as a minor character in a women's serial on their anniversary, even allowing an unprofitable opera review to remain on the air just because he liked watching the star soprano's bosom heave as she hit the high notes.

“Well…I don't think ‘pressure' is the right word,” she said, attempting to tread lightly on the topic.

“So what is the right word?”

Vivian stuck her lower lip out and exhaled, ruffling the wave of hair lying over her forehead.. “‘Influence,' perhaps…?”

It was a cop-out, but Graham seemed to consider it thoughtfully, staring off into middle distance.

Mr. Hart had certainly influenced the producer of
The Darkness Knows
to give Vivian a try as the new Lorna Lafferty after Edie quit. Vivian knew her previous minor acting credits at the station wouldn't have won her the job alone. Vivian had heard whispers around the station speculating about the true nature of her relationship with Mr. Hart, and she knew Graham had too. Was that the reason for Graham's sudden interest in her? Did he think she had any influence with Mr. Hart because of her previous position as his secretary? Vivian braced herself for Graham's next question. He'd certainly ask whether she could put a bug in Mr. Hart's ear for him about Harvey's character arc.

“Harvey Diamond is merely a stepping-stone for me, of course,” Graham said instead, speaking as smoothly as if he were giving an interview to a reporter for a glossy magazine. He leaned back into the padded red vinyl of the booth. “I have greater ambitions.”

“You do?” Vivian tried to sound surprised. After all, who
didn't
have greater ambitions? She looked at Graham expectantly: no doubt Hollywood, the pictures. He'd probably already signed a contract with Paramount.

“I've written a play,” he said solemnly.

“A play?” Of all the career ambitions she'd imagined for Graham Yarborough, playwright was not among them. Perhaps he had hidden depths after all. “That's marvelous, Graham. What's it about?”

“It's about communism.”

“Communism,” she repeated doubtfully.

“It is, but it's not,” he said, lowering his chin and glancing about him. His face grew flushed, and he lowered his voice. “You can't write about communism outright these days, of course.”

“Of course.”

“It's sort of a veiled allegory about communism.”

A veiled allegory about communism
. Vivian repeated the phrase in her head several times, and the repetition only served to make the idea less interesting to her.

“I see,” she managed to say. “Are you a…” Vivian also looked around to make sure no one was listening. The two girls at the booth opposite were chatting animatedly with each other; eavesdropping had apparently become tiresome. “Communist?” she finished in a whisper.

“Oh, good lord, no,” Graham answered quickly, relaxing back into his seat again.

Vivian sighed. Well, that was a relief. It wouldn't do at all for Harvey Diamond to be associated with the Red Menace. That kind of thing ruined careers.

“But I do think the ideas of the movement are interesting,” he continued in a matter-of-fact tone. He looked off into the distance again for a moment, and then his attention snapped back to her. “Anyway, I'd love for you to read it and give me your impression.”

Vivian's eyes widened with surprise. “Me? Read your play?”

“When it's finished, of course,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes. “I trust your professional opinion implicitly.”

Vivian's breath caught in her throat. Her professional opinion? No one had ever suggested she might have a professional opinion before, especially not someone like Graham Yarborough. He was a bona fide star.

“Say,” he said, placing his hand over hers on the table. “Would you like to have dinner with me this Saturday night?”

Vivian felt her pulse quicken at his touch, but she forced herself to wait a beat before answering. She still wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't charming his way into a favor. Then he beamed that movie-star smile at her, and her resolve softened.
So what if he is?
she thought. With a smile like that, he could charm her into almost anything.

“I'd love to,” she said.

Graham tipped his wrist to glance at his watch.

“It's after nine already,” he said, releasing her hand. “We should head back for the ten o'clock. I want to give my thoughts on the timing to Joe.”

• • •

The WCHI studios occupied the top two floors of the outwardly unimpressive dark stone Grayson-Cole Building. It was wedged among hotels, movie theaters, and drugstores on Madison between Clark and Dearborn in Chicago's Loop, just a stone's throw from “that great street,” State Street. The cavernous lobby was deserted at this time of night, but the elevator was waiting as Vivian and Graham approached, the sign above proclaiming “Express to 11—WCHI.” The doors were open, and Angelo, the operator, sat on his stool in the corner, flipping a nickel with his thumb into the open palm of the other hand. He jumped up immediately when he spotted them, a smile lighting his face.

“Mr. Yarborough, Miss Witchell,” he said, bobbing his head respectfully toward Vivian.

“Quiet night, Angelo?” Graham asked, jingling the keys in his coat pocket.

“Yes, sir.” Angelo brushed imaginary lint off the front of his immaculate maroon uniform and closed the elevator doors behind them.

Vivian smiled at him as he set the elevator into motion with a jerk of the floor lever. She felt a certain solidarity with people like Angelo. Not so long ago she had been just a lowly receptionist, overlooked and put upon.

“I heard there's a chance of rain tonight,” Graham said, idly adjusting the cuffs of his shirtsleeves.

“Rain? Oh, shoot!” Vivian exclaimed in irritation. “I left my umbrella in the upstairs lounge.”

“I'll go up and fetch it for you,” Graham offered.

“No, no. That's okay. I think I'll go up and get a glass of water for the ten o'clock while I'm there,” she said. “My voice was a bit hoarse at the end of the last show.”

The elevator jerked to a stop, and Angelo opened the doors to the eleventh floor.

“Watch your step, sir.”

Graham hopped up the inch from the elevator to the hallway floor. He turned with a flourish. “I'll see you in the studio,” he said to Vivian, giving Angelo a little salute before the doors closed again.

Another few practiced jerks of the controls and they arrived at the twelfth floor. It seemed to have cleared out almost completely since Vivian retrieved her purse only thirty minutes earlier. She stuck her head tentatively out the elevator door and surveyed the hallway in both directions. No more than half of the hallway lights were illuminated.

Angelo also poked his head out of the car to survey the atmosphere. He sniffed, as if testing the air. “Would you like me to walk with you, miss?”

Vivian stepped out into the hall. Something felt wrong. Were the lights always turned off this early in the evening?

“Oh, no, Angelo,” she said, squinting into the semidarkness. “Thank you for the offer. I'm not going far.” She waved her hand toward the end of the hallway with a confidence she didn't feel and headed toward the lounge, wincing as every step echoed on the marble floors. Vivian glanced at the closed doors of the studios she passed. Most of them were small and used for news broadcasts or lectures.

The other half of the floor was occupied by rehearsal space and administrative offices, which were usually deserted by seven o'clock. Even Mr. Hart rarely worked later than that. She started to hum “Jeepers Creepers” in an effort to lighten the mood but stopped after a few bars. It was a poor choice of song. She increased her pace, heels clicking madly.

Vivian walked quickly, breezing right past the closed lounge door, then stopped so abruptly that she lost her balance and stumbled, the flat side of her right heel scraping the slick floor. She righted herself, and as she bent over to rub out the offending scuff mark her shoe had made, she saw a sign pinned to the door.

She leaned in to get a closer look, and the remaining hallway lights silently blinked to life. Vivian gasped and jumped backward. Her hand flew to her chest, and she felt her heart thumping beneath her open palm. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself, and when she finally turned back toward the elevator, she saw that Angelo had found the light switch. He stood just outside the elevator doors, watching her with an anxious expression on his face. She waved her thanks to him and sighed at her skittishness.

She returned her attention to the note. On what appeared to be the blank side of a piece of a script was written “Closed for Cleaning” in large block letters. She pushed the door with the tips of her fingers. It wasn't latched and swung open with more force than she had intended, hitting the wall with a bang.

The interior room's lack of windows made the darkness almost complete. She could see nothing but the soft yellow glow of the radio in the corner of the room, which was tuned to
The Kraft Music Hall
.

Bing Crosby quietly crooned a love song as Vivian felt around the corner to flip the switch. She sighed with relief when light flooded the room. It looked just as it had a few hours earlier: dirty coffee cups scattered about, ashtrays overflowing. Her discarded carton of cigarettes still rested near the sink. Clearly, no one had been cleaning anything in here.

She was sure her umbrella had fallen under a chair at one of the tables on the far side of the room where she'd had her lunch earlier in the day. As she approached, she thought she spied the tip of the black handle peeking out from underneath the table closest to the sink. Vivian sighed with relief and crouched down to retrieve it.

Her eyes were drawn to the admonishing note pinned above the sink in front of her: “Please rinse out all cups PROMPTLY.” She rolled her eyes as her fingertips brushed the floor. Her hand closed around something soft, but when Vivian pulled, it didn't budge. She wrinkled her brow and pressed the object with her fingertips. It gave a little under her touch. She prodded it for a moment in confusion before she finally glanced under the chair with an exasperated sigh.

When her eyes fell upon what she'd been touching, she sucked in her breath sharply and staggered backward into the table behind her. A wooden chair fell to the floor with a clatter. Vivian realized with shock that she'd been poking the stockinged calf of a woman lying on the floor under the table.